


Ferelden winters, Antivan summers

by GeneralHuxNeedsRest



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Blight, Recovery, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeneralHuxNeedsRest/pseuds/GeneralHuxNeedsRest
Summary: Zevran is not used to the harsh winters of Ferelden.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Ferelden winters, Antivan summers

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I am not really sure how does the climate in Thedas work, but hey, I guess that Ferelden must be colder than Antiva, right?  
> Enjoy some sick Zevran and his dear warden taking care of him.

“Okay, I think that´s all for today.” Alistair yawned and set the papers on the side of the desk. It was getting late and Mahariel, sitting in front of him, was growing restless. When Alistair dismissed him, he basically jumped from his seat.

  
“How is he doing?” The king of Thedas asked before he could reach the door.

  
A sad smile appeared on the Warden´s face. “He´s recovering. It´s slow, but he´s getting better. I mean…he´s definitely better than he was a week ago.”

  
Alistair nodded. He remembered a week ago. He barely saw Mahariel and when he did, his face was gaunt and haunted. When he wasn´t in his room, he stalked the cold corridors and looked like he was about to face the archdemon.

  
“Maybe you should take him somewhere warm,” Alistair suggested. “When he is strong enough to travel.”

  
“I think he would appreciate that,” Mahariel nodded.

  
“Are you sure you don´t want to get someone to care for him while you work?”

  
Mahariel shook his head. “It´s not that I don´t appreciate the offer, Alistair,” he said. “But Zevran doesn´t really trust easily. It would just stress him out, to have someone else care for him, with me not there.”

  
Allistair nodded. “Understood. If you need anything at all, just let me know.”

When Mahariel enters his room, it´s shrouded in the ember glow of the fireplace. The air is hot and stifling. He sits down next to a lump on the bed and makes sure that all the blankets are in their place. Then, he goes and opens the window.

  
The cold is not good, but the stuffy, heavy air surely isn´t good for his lungs, either.

  
He waits for a little while until the air feels at least a little bit cooler and then closes the window. He changes into more comfortable clothes, simple leggings and a tunic, and fills a glass with a pitcher sat on the table. Then, he returns to bed.

  
“Zev,” he whispers, gently setting the blankets aside, uncovering the elf hidden beneath them. His lover stirs and coughs.

  
Mahariel winces at the sound; it sounds ugly, painful. As if something in Zevran´s lungs was tearing apart.

  
“Zevran,” he repeats, louder this time. Zevran finally opens his eyes, red-rimmed, tired, eyelids heavy. His lips curve upwards a little upon seeing his lover, but it´s a far cry from his usual charming smile.

  
“My warden…” he croaks and tries to sit up. Mahariel helps him up and brings the glass of water to his lips.

  
“How do you feel?” he asks after setting the glass on the bedside table. He sits closer to Zevran, tucking him into his side.

  
“Tired,” Zevran whispers, his head lolling onto Mahariel´s shoulder. “I feel like I could sleep for days.”

  
“You did,” Mahariel says and kisses the top of Zevran´s head. “Every time I came to check up on you, you were sleeping. You would barely wake up for drink and medicine.”

  
“Really?” Zevran frowns. “I don´t remember you waking me up at all.”

  
Mahariel doesn´t say anything, just pulls Zevran closer to himself.

  
The last month was a nightmare and Mahariel wasn´t that scared even when he was charging at the archdemon. The Denerim winters were long and cold and Zevran was used to the warm climate of Antiva; at first, neither one of them paid attention to the little coughs and sneezes, assuming he just caught a cold.

  
Then it got worse.

  
They were on a meeting with Alistair and some nobles, about the possibilities of helping Ferelden refugees in Kirkwall when Mahariel noticed just how pale Zevran has gotten, all of sudden.

  
His eyes were glazed over, the only colour in his face was an unhealthy flush high on his cheekbones and he was gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

  
Mahariel leaned in closer to him and put a hand on his knee. “Zev?” he said. “Is everything okay?”

  
Zevran made no sound, just shook his head, panic beginning to set in his face. Then, he stood up – or at least tried to. The moment he was upright, his knees gave out and he collapsed right into Mahariel´s arms.

  
“Mahariel? What´s wrong with him?” Mahariel hadn´t even noticed Alistair moving, but the King of Ferelden was beside him in an instant, checking Zevran for injuries. “Is he hurt?”

  
“N-n-no…” Mahariel managed to choke out, holding Zevran close, trying not to panic. Stupid, stupid. Blind. How could he not notice? How could he let it get so bad?

  
Zevran was burning up and his breaths were quick and shallow, rattling. “He´s sick,” he choked up. “Has been for some time. Not used to the cold. I thought it was nothing, he never said how bad he actually was.”

  
Another noble appeared by their side, touching Zevran´s forehead and cheeks, feeling his neck. Mahariel wanted to pull Zevran away, how does he even dare to get close to him?

  
The noble must have noticed Mahariel´s distress because he held up his arms to show he means no harm. “I´ve seen this before,” he explained. “It seems like there´s liquid in his lungs. An infection. It happens, sometimes, winter fever. A simple cold turns into a deadly sickness, seemingly overnight.”

  
Zevran tensed in his arms and coughed, weakly, as if he wasn´t able to draw in enough breath to expel what was bothering him. Mahariel tightened his arms around him, wincing when he realized just how thin has the other elf become.

  
“What will help?” he asked. “Is there a cure?”

  
The noble frowned. “Some recommend bloodletting and leeches, which I consider to be more harmful than beneficial. Overall, simple bed rest and constant care are all you can do. Keep his fever down. Keep his upper body up, it will help him breathe. Make him eat and drink what he can. Embrium and elfroot should ease the symptoms a little. Wait. There´s nothing more to do.”

  
Mahariel felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was Alistair.

  
“Come on,” he said. “You need to put him in bed. I´ll help you.”


End file.
